Telling It Straight
by Cybele3
Summary: A Rentfic - my first - and a Maureen-and-Joanne fic. If you read and review I will write more... Chs. 5 and 6 up.
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTES  
  
So. This is my first Rentfic, ever. If you look at my profile you will see that I also have a Frasier fanfic to my credit. I would advise you not to read it, but if you must, please know that I wrote it on a bet.  
  
That having been taken care of. ;) I am not a Rent expert, as I think most of you are. I've seen the show, once, and I liked it a lot. And I loved Maureen and Joanne. One thing I found when I started cruising through the fics here is that there seem to be no M/J fics. Tonight, on a whim, I decided to remedy that. However, I don't know the characters or situations nearly as well as most of you do; so if you have any suggestions, please, I am very very open to them.  
  
This is supposed to be The Story of How Maureen and Joanne Got Together, only that didn't seem like a very interesting title. ;) It starts kind of in the middle of things, and if I get enough of a response to warrant continuing with this, there will be flashbacks to explain the rest.  
  
I think that's it.  
  
TELLING IT STRAIGHT  
  
MAUREEN  
  
She says it's not her thing. "I'm not gay," she tells me. "I never have been. I do know my own mind, Maureen, I've been with enough men to have this figured out -" and just how many men has she been with, three? Real swinging single there. I pointed out she won't know till she tries it. She shook her head, though her hair wouldn't budge, of course. "I'm not gay, Maureen. Let it go. I don't know how many ways I can tell you, I think you're great, but I don't swing that way."  
  
Such a load of bullshit.  
  
This woman needs to lighten up and learn to live. How many years has she sat in that stupid swivel chair at that desk with the green blotter carefully aligned with the edge of the desk, poring over those papers, leaning back on that Harvard Law degree like it's supposed to satisfy her all by itself, wearing that damn bun on the back of her head? She won't listen to me, of course. If you get enough drinks in her she'll admit that she's "taken by my impetuosity" - one time, when she was a few drinks beyond that, she told me she "envied my love of life." So what the hell is she doing in that swivel chair? Get out there! Find your own life to love, hon!  
  
She doesn't see it that way. She says she's happy, and I think she believes it, when she's sober and properly bunned. And she's so uptight, so fucking anal. Of course she could never go for a girl. Oh, no, because that doesn't fit in with evolutionary biology, does it, the way the world is supposed to work? Mommy taught her all about it, I'm sure. How men take care of women, sperm is made for ovum and a penis fits just perfectly in a vagina. I don't think Mommy ever got around to explaining how fingers can fit just as well. I don't think Mommy ever told her a woman can be happy with another woman. Come to think of it, I don't think Mommy ever explained what "happy" means. I'm damn sure Joanne doesn't have a clue.  
  
Well, it's challenge, and that's always fun.  
  
The hell of it all is that I like Joanne. I'd say I cared about her if I wasn't afraid of getting my mouth washed out with soap. Underneath those business suits and that fucking bun there is a real life breathing sexy-as- fucking-hell woman waiting to get out. I'm here for it, you know I'd like to be of service, but I'm getting tired of this. Tired of watching her pretend it doesn't get to her at all when I shake my ass in her direction, when I show up for a just-friends date wearing that hooker shirt I picked up last week at Filene's with her in mind. Tired of watching her roll her eyes when I flirt with her and dodge away when I try to make a move. She wants this, damn it, she does. But if I didn't like her I'd have given up trying long since. Jesus, she's stubborn.  
  
We've got another just-friends date tonight. It's now or never, baby.  
  
JOANNE  
  
I wish she would stop this. I have been perfectly clear with her. How much longer does she think this can go on?  
  
Of course she's sexy, of course she's hot, of course no man in his right mind would turn her down. And no lesbian would either, of course. But I am not a lesbian. And I don't know how many times I can tell her that.  
  
Oh, I know what she thinks. She thinks my life is staid and dull and unfulfilling. She thinks I'm staid and dull and unfulfilled - boring, when it comes down to it - and that she has some sort of duty to change all that, flaunt me all over the city and bring me back to her bed at night. It's amazing I haven't stopped seeing her long since, changed my phone number and my email address and instructed everyone at work that she is disturbed and cannot under any circumstances be allowed to speak with me. It's amazing I haven't taken out a restraining order on her. The stunts she pulls - showing up on my doorstep at 3 am, drunk off her ass, wearing that ridiculous kitten costume? What was that about? Bringing me to bars and all but pouring drinks down my throat, waiting for that one admission that'll prove her point - waiting for me to admit that I'm miserable and I need her to save me. She must be disappointed, that I'm quite happy as I am. Boring, perhaps, but happy. If she's looking for someone more spontaneous, more interesting, she'd best look elsewhere, and I am going to tell her that plainly. Tonight.  
  
Of course, that's going to make waves between us. She's a great friend, fun to have around, someone I can tell anything to. God knows she tells me everything - and yes, I do mean everything - and you know, I don't mind, no matter how raunchy it gets. I've grown. attached. to her, for sure - I love having her around, despite the fact that all she ever seems to want is to get me into bed with her. It's exhilarating, being around someone so free. It's -  
  
See, here I go again, and I'm not going to let myself. I am not a lesbian. I never have been. I was not brought up that way and I did not develop that way. I've been with men. I've liked being with men. Reasonably well. It certainly didn't repulse me or anything. If I've never fallen victim to the sort of screaming orgasm which Maureen describes for me in such detail from her own experience, well, Maureen's reactions are always ten times more flamboyant than mine. The fact that I was somewhat restrained sexually was merely a symptom of my more restrained nature in general. I am happy the way I am. I don't need her to change me. And I'm not gay. Damn it, I'm not gay!  
  
Oh, for God's sake. This is all her fault. She's confusing the hell out of me and she knows it damn well. She knows she's getting to me, she knows she's tearing my life as I've known it to shreds, making me dizzy, and I don't know which way is up anymore. I don't know why I put up with her. I don't understand it. Why is she doing this to me? Isn't there anyone else in her life she could latch onto, someone younger, more impulsive, more - more gay?  
  
I can't be falling for her. That would be ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I don't understand the basis for homosexuality - is it biological? Sociological? I don't understand it and I don't like things I don't understand. Just like her, I don't understand her, but - God, I like her.  
  
What is this?  
  
Tonight. I have to tell her, tonight. I have to tell her this can't work, damn it. I feel like my whole life's falling apart around me, I've never been so confused, and it's her fault and she knows it and she has to stop it. Tonight. 


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so. Two more chapters, because by the time I finished Chapter 2 *I* wanted to see what was going to happen next. ;) Hopefully you will as well.  
  
I've probably totally mutilated all the character histories and I'm really sorry for that. Like I said, I don't know the show as well as y'all. Most notably, I've no real idea how old Maureen is. And I've probably flubbed up lots of stuff I don't even know about.  
  
Read. Review. pets reader's head Good ff.neter. ;)  
  
JOANNE  
  
Oh. . . my. . . God.  
  
Head. . . ache. . . and. . . swollen. . . and -  
  
OW!  
  
Touching head not good idea. Apparently.  
  
Okay, let's think.  
  
(Ow. Head hurts.)  
  
(That's good, that's a sentence right there. Or almost.)  
  
(Attemping coherence -)  
  
This is not my bed.  
  
Oh, my God, this is not my bed!  
  
Jerking upright was a really bad idea, but I had other things on my mind by then. And - damned if it wasn't Maureen. In her bed. With me, of course. The two of us, sharing her bed. Naked.  
  
Well, there are any number of ways this could have come about, right? This doesn't mean anything at all.  
  
Won't know what happened till I ask her, I guess.  
  
Oh, God, my head hurts.  
  
Try to think, Joanne. Just what did you do?  
  
MAUREEN  
  
She thinks I'm still asleep, doesn't she? Well, it's more fun if I keep on pretending. Give her a chance to work this out for herself.  
  
JOANNE  
  
So, let's take stock. My head feels like the crashing cymbals in a marching band, my mouth tastes like a sewer, I smell like I haven't showered in three days, and I just slept with Maureen Johnson.  
  
At least the last thing makes the rest feel manageable in comparison. What time is it? She hasn't woken up yet - well, of course not, it's 7 am by her clock, which means it could be anywhere between 6:20 and 7:50. When has Maureen ever woken up before noon?  
  
Great. So that means I have plenty of time to figure this out.  
  
So. Last night.  
  
I'm sure I can remember at least parts if I concentrate.  
  
The beginning, of course I remember that. We went out to a bar, naturally. Her suggestion. I might have made a fuss, told her it was coffee or nothing, but since I was planning on telling her, once and for all, that she had to leave me alone or I was calling the cops I figured it was only fair to let her choose the location.  
  
It was one of her mixed bars. The one we met in, actually, though I had no idea it was a mixed bar then. I swear that if Robert hadn't had a sublimated desire to ogle lesbians while he was dating me we wouldn't be in this situation. It's his fault I ever became aware of that bar's existence. What a shame, that he wasn't around to watch last night. I'm sure he would have been vastly entertained. Not to mention aroused.  
  
Oh, my God, it's beginning to come back. She -  
  
No, no, I'm going to do this chronologically.  
  
So she chose the location. "Lava Bar." And, you know, I really intended to order a ginger ale, maybe ask for it on the rocks if Maureen was going to demand sophistication from me. I wasn't going to have anything to drink. Nothing alcoholic. But then we were there, and she was obviously having a great time, flirting with me hard as ever, and something about the way she was doing it -  
  
No, I remember now, what it was. I ordered a drink, and she made a crack about how if I was going to play so hard to get she was going to have to slip something in it to get things going. I was offended - in my job, I've seen too many cases of exactly that to find it funny - and I said something like that and she did her typical wide-eyed innocent "What, is it a crime?" I said, yes, it's called rape, Maureen. And all of a sudden she was serious. I had never seen Maureen serious. I did not think it was possible. But she was, and what she said was, "Come on, Joanne, you don't really think I'd ever force you into anything you didn't want to do, did you?" There was a pause there. "Joanne?" I wasn't sure what to say. "Flirting's one thing, but come on, honey, if you're starting to think I'd take advantage of you, ever, you need to say it. Now."  
  
She's right. She never would. In fact, I'm starting to remember that she didn't, but that's for later. All that mattered at that moment was that suddenly she was acting like she cared about me.  
  
So I ordered a drink. Stoli shot, lime chaser, her suggestion. I thought I'd need some alcohol in me if I wanted to break it off.  
  
Well, this worked out splendidly.  
  
So I had a drink, and I was going to tell her, right then and there, but the conversation moved on, and the moment was lost, but I kept ordering drinks because I didn't know when it was going to be right again, you see? And then somehow she'd dragged me onto the dance floor, and I really don't dance, but last night I was dancing, and she was shaking her ass at me and swinging her hair and I think if she didn't have those little blond curls that fall in her face when she ducks her head to laugh I wouldn't be in this situation either. Not to mention those outrageous leopard-skin pleather pants she had on. There's no one else in the world who could have carried those off.  
  
Yes, so, getting back to the point. I was drunk, in short. And you know, she was not. I'm starting to realize this. She got me drunk and she took advantage of me exactly like she said she never would and -  
  
No, no, I ordered all those drinks. I got myself drunk. It's not her fault she had to be the designated driver.  
  
It was her fault that she drove me back to her place, but it's true that mine's twenty-five minutes from the Lava Bar and she'd have had a fifty- minute round trip. "You can crash at my place," she said, saucy as ever, licking her lips. I was too drunk to care, or maybe just drunk enough to find it sexy. So she drove me back to her place. I was in a babbling state by then. I don't care to think of what I was saying, but I know she found it highly amusing, I remember her laughing the whole way home, her hair falling in her eyes and then flipping back when she'd gun the engine. I do remember realizing, somewhere during the ride, that she's gorgeous. I'm pretty sure I told her that. I must have. Why else would she have leaned away from the wheel to kiss me on the cheek? I remember horns honking. Just the memory is making my head hurt.  
  
We got back to her place and - okay, this is when it all happened, I have to remember. We got back to her place, and I kicked my shoes off, because I was wobbling seriously in those heels by then. I noticed that the inside of the sole was dirty, I need new shoes, those ones are old and I can't use baking soda to take the smell out much longer. Maureen kicked off her shoes, and threw her jacket off, and suddenly I was so aware of that halter top she was wearing, and I wanted to undo all my buttons, but I only undid one of them. Maybe two. And - what did we do? I remember more drinks (*that* was her fault, or did I ask for them?) And - what else?  
  
Oh, my God, it's all coming back to me now. I remember.  
  
We played Truth or Dare, that's what we did. What, are we fifteen years old now?  
  
What did I tell her? 


	3. Chapter 3

So this is where the PG-13 thing comes into effect. Oh, and you better be a pretty precocious 13-year-old. :)  
  
There is detailed discussion of lesbian sex, some of straight sex as well. There is significant buildup for a sex scene, though not an actual sex scene. I had a great deal of fun with this, but that's me.  
  
Read, review, but if you're just going to tell me lesbians are evil and immoral and I'm going to hell, please spare me. Though in that case I don't know why the hell you'd be reading a Rentfic in the first place. :)  
  
Chapter 3  
  
MAUREEN  
  
Truth or Dare. Am I brilliant or what?  
  
I mean, it was so simple. She was already drunk, and that's all you need, really. Drunk people are just looking for an excuse to spill their guts. I'd had a few drinks, but I wasn't drunk. I felt a little guilty over that, like I should get drunk to keep her company, but - no. I wanted to be able to remember this. I knew what was coming. When it comes to sex, I've got radar like you wouldn't believe, and last night it was blipping all over the place. It was more like a steady beeeeeeeeeeeep by the time she'd kicked off those shoes and settled on my couch. Rrrrrr.  
  
And it was so easy to convince her! She sat down and then she leaned towards me, looked me straight in the eye and says "So, what do we do now?" like it's a come-on. It wasn't, I know her better than that, but hon, it's a good thing pleather doesn't soak through. I don't think I'd have been more turned on if she'd leaned forward that way and said "Fuck me now." So I thought, for a second, and then my brilliance just shone right on through and - without missing a beat - I said "Let's play Truth or Dare!" In the kind of voice you'd use at a fifth-grade sleepover. And she bought it. I knew she would.  
  
It started out tame enough. It always does. She wouldn't take any dares, it was all truth, but I knew it was going to be that way. And she wouldn't give me any dares either, but there's plenty of time for that later. I let it stay innocent for awhile. What was your most embarrassing moment, who was your first kiss, what's the stupidest thing you've ever done. Boring, but I was patient. I can be, when I need to be. When being patient means scoring.  
  
Actually, she was the one who started it towards raunch. We'd been playing for awhile, getting nowhere, and I was actually thinking we should just call it a night when she said it. She was on maybe her tenth drink by then, and I'm sure she'd been dying to ask this. She blurted it out, fast before she could change her mind, with just enough drunken confidence to carry her through. "Have you ever been with a man?"  
  
It was my moment. I couldn't let it go.  
  
"Oh. been with a man how? What does that mean, sweetie?" I could barely resist purring. I figured I'd better save some treats for later.  
  
She rolled her eyes, or tried. "Had. Sex. Maureen."  
  
"Oh. Well, of course, honey."  
  
Her eyes got bigger. "Really? Who?"  
  
I laughed. "You got your truth. Ask me next time around. Truth or dare?"  
  
"Maureen!"  
  
"Truth or dare, sweetheart?"  
  
"Oh, for God's sake. Truth."  
  
She'd started it. I wasn't going to let the advantage go. "When was your first time?"  
  
"First time what?" she asked, mimicking me.  
  
"First fuck, dear." She flushed, or at least I think she did, it was damn hard to tell by then. "When and who?"  
  
I don't think she noticed that was two truths. "Brian Bowman. Twenty- four. Truth or dare?"  
  
"What?" I knew it was going to be bad. I didn't know it was going to be that bad. "Twenty-FOUR? What, were you planning on being a nun?"  
  
She shook her head, looking annoyed. "No. I was just waiting for the right guy. Truth or dare?"  
  
"And he was the right guy? Brian Bowman? What the fuck kind of a last name is Bowman anyhow? Was he bow-legged?"  
  
"No, and are you jealous?"  
  
"You know it, sweetcakes. So tell me, was Brian Bowman the right guy?"  
  
She hesitated, then shook, not her head, but her whole body, like she was trying to snap out of something. "It's not my turn, I'm not answering, leave it alone. Truth or fucking dare, Maureen?"  
  
That caught me by surprise. Joanne doesn't swear. "Truth," I said, after a minute.  
  
She glanced down. "Sorry."  
  
"No problem. So ask me the question."  
  
"Um." She shook her head again, trying to clear it. I could have told her it was a lost cause. "Oh. Right. How many men've you been with?"  
  
"You want me to count?"  
  
"Well, why not?"  
  
I had to laugh. "Well, how the hell am I supposed to do that?"  
  
She stared. "Maureen!"  
  
"You asked!"  
  
"But - aren't you a lesbian?"  
  
"Not by a long shot, hon. I'm bi all the way."  
  
"But - then - how many guys?"  
  
"Does it really matter?"  
  
"Well, I asked! You have to answer!"  
  
"All right, all right! Except -" I had to laugh yet again. "I don't know!"  
  
"Oh, come on, you can't even *estimate*?" Though it came out more like "essimate."  
  
"I don't know, more than twenty, less than fifty? Somewhere around there?"  
  
Her jaw dropped. It was pretty funny. "And how many girls?"  
  
"I got into girls a little later. Probably only fifteen, twenty girls."  
  
"So we're talking a minimum" - she didn't quite get that one either - "of thirty-five people here."  
  
"Glad you can still add. Well, sure. I lost it at fifteen, I'm twenty- eight now. It's not that many when you figure it out. Thirty-five people over thirteen years works out to like." I'd had a few drinks, but if I fudged the estimation she wasn't going to be able to tell. "That's like four people a year. One every three months. I'm reasonably committed."  
  
"Oh for heaven's sake!"  
  
"Well, are we counting one-night stands? Without those my average goes way down. I just like some fun and variety when I'm not attached, sweetie. And how do you define sex with between lesbians?"  
  
She was totally fuddled by then, and definitely blushing as well. "You'd know better than I would."  
  
"Well, I mean, with a guy he has to penetrate, right? So if we're just talking strap-on sex with girls, I've only been with like two women."  
  
I could see her wanting to ask more questions, but I knew she wouldn't dare, so I just kept right on going. "It's all so weird, isn't it? Like if a guy fingers a girl no one ever considers it sex, but if it's girl-on- girl then they figure she lost her virginity then and there. And oral sex, same deal. So tell me, Joanne, am I counting all the girls who've fingered me, ate me out, *or* used a strap? That's where I got the fifteen, but you tell me, what does 'lesbian sex' mean?"  
  
She was staring open-mouthed. But I was enjoying this too damned much to let it go now.  
  
"Truth or dare?" I said finally, when she'd cleared her throat but made no attempt to say anything.  
  
She blinked. Once, twice. "What?"  
  
"Truth or dare."  
  
"Oh." She thought for a second. "Can I ask you something?" she said, leaning forward again.  
  
"Well, it's not my turn -"  
  
"Oh, stop the game for a second, I want to know."  
  
"Oh, all right." I crossed my legs, making damn sure the pleather stretched as tight as it would go. "What is it?"  
  
"Why me?" she asked, just like that.  
  
"Playing at Nancy Kerrigan, are you?"  
  
"Stop it, Maureen, I'm serious. Why me? Why are you so - attracted to me?"  
  
Oh, Joanne. I'm sure she'd retch if she knew how sweet and, well, young she can sound sometimes. Lawyers aren't supposed to be sweet or young. "I don't know. I mean, I was at that bar, with Mark, and you were there, and you'd just broken up with what's-his-ass -"  
  
"Robert."  
  
"Right, what's-his-ass. And you were sitting there, and you looked so out of place, sweetie, really, sipping at that drink and trying to pretend you were having fun, and it was like - you were different from everyone else, you know? And you caught my eye and -" I had to lighten this somehow, I wasn't going to - to open it up like this - "and I just noticed you had a really nice rack, and I figured, what the hell?"  
  
She glared, flung a pillow that came nowhere near me. "Thanks. You know, that was nice till you got to the end."  
  
"Well, I -" Now I was fidgeting. "I kind of meant the first part more. I mean - yeah." Oh my God, I don't talk that way to anyone. Where did the sex kitten go? I needed her then!  
  
"Oh, Maureen," she said, and I thought she was going to cry. Really. Jesus Christ. And then she leaned forward and kissed my cheek. Her lipstick was cool and sleek and oh-so-sexy and it was mostly worn off anyway so it was just the touch of soft skin against my cheek and I thought I was going to die if I couldn't have her right there.  
  
But patience is everything.  
  
"Truth or dare?" I said, trying to collect myself.  
  
"Who's Mark?" she asked. A true drunk, always three steps behind.  
  
"Mark? The guy I was seeing. Truth or dare?"  
  
"You were seeing a guy."  
  
"Good, hon, good for you for picking up on that. Truth or dare?"  
  
"And you dumped him for *me*?!"  
  
"Well, it was getting boring anyway."  
  
"You dumped your boyfriend for some girl you'd never even talked to that you saw in a bar?"  
  
I was wearying of this. "Truth or dare, Joanne?"  
  
She glared at me, then suddenly spat it out. "Dare!"  
  
I was going to ask her to kiss me. I really was. Then I thought - how awful would that be, taking advantage of her that way?  
  
So what came out instead was "A dare? Oh, goody! Take off your shirt."  
  
JOANNE  
  
"Take off your shirt," she said. And I'd asked for a dare. And I was drunk.  
  
So I did it.  
  
The buttons were really tough just then, but I got them undone somehow. I slipped the shirt off my shoulders. "Truth or dare?"  
  
"No, no, no!" she said, squealing. "The bra too!"  
  
I laughed. "You just said the shirt!"  
  
"But I meant the bra! You know that! Joanne!"  
  
I looked at her, practically salivating over me, eyes glued to my chest, and all of a sudden I felt - sexy. Sexier than I'd ever felt in my life. None of the guys I'd been with had ever made me feel like this. Not this powerful, this sudden, heady rush. I had power over this girl. She wanted me. I could tease her as long as I wanted. She'd go crazy over me.  
  
"Well, you've seen boobs before," I said, testing the waters. She giggled. She tossed her head. She begged.  
  
I reached around to the back and slipped the catch on the bra. It fell silently into my lap. I thrust my chest out as far as it would go, looked back at her with what I was hoping, by that point, were bedroom eyes.  
  
She took a good long look, then raised her eyes to my face. "Nice." Drawing out the sibilant at the end of the word, letting it die off into the silence.  
  
I swallowed. Hard. It was a little cold in the room. My nipples were tightening. I knew she was noticing.  
  
"Truth or dare?" I managed, and shivered. My nipples had formed into proud little peaks that I was resolutely trying to ignore. Maureen wasn't.  
  
"Dare." She flipped her hair back from her eyes, flashed me a challenging smile.  
  
I should have asked her to take her shirt off too. I meant to. What came out, though, was "Kiss me."  
  
She did. 


	4. Chapter 4

JOANNE

And…

Oh, God. I've only got half-memories of the rest of the night, but even so I feel like I was never alive till –

Oh, my God, what am I talking about?

I'm sounding like Chapter Five of a Harlequin novel, just after the rugged cowboy beds the ice princess heiress and she confesses that she "never lived till she died in his arms" or something ridiculous like that. I've never encountered a Harlequin novel featuring lesbians, though, which might be a good thing. Maybe I can corner the market, make myself a few bucks.

I am not going to do this. I'm not! None of this makes any sense and I'm not even going to try to make it make sense - 

I was drunk last night. Maureen's been basically sexually harassing me for three weeks now. I was drunk enough to give in, but that does not make me a lesbian, and it doesn't mean – okay, just because –

See, here I go, confusing myself again. If it kills me I'm going to put the rest of that in a complete sentence.

Okay, so just because it was the best sex I've ever had in my life doesn't make me gay?

I'm not sure how that would work, but I think it's going to have to stand for the moment.

I need to get out of here. I can't think straight lying in this bed with her smelling of my perfume. I need to get home, where there isn't a yellow thong thrown over the lava lamp and a naked woman in the bed. I'm sure I can figure this out if I can just get out of here.

MAUREEN

Jesus Christ, she's not planning on walking out, is she?

JOANNE

I was in the act of standing up and hunting around for my clothes when she sat up, curls disheveled and flattened over one ear, naked with the blanket wound around her waist, still managing to look sufficiently sexy to make me turn around quickly before I lost my resolve.

"Going somewhere?" she drawled, voice raspy with sleep. I winced and, having located my panties hanging loosely off the doorknob, pulled them on quickly. The fact that they were still slightly damp didn't improve my mood any; nor did it help to put me in the proper businesslike frame of mind. 

"I have to go," I said, looking around for the rest of my clothes. My bra seemed to be hanging from some sort of a hook on the wall (where the previous owner had hung a painting, perhaps?) and I abandoned that as a lost cause, but my blouse and skirt were more accessible. I was halfway into the blouse before I noticed that vodka had been spilled down the front and it reeked of smoke and body odor. "Oh, God, I can't wear this."

"So borrow something of mine… where are you going?" she said, voice starting to sharpen a bit. I heard the bedsprings creak as she sat up a little further.

I checked my watch, which, miraculously, was still on my wrist. (But how the hell had I broken the face? …a dim memory began to flutter vaguely around the edges of my mind, of slamming my wrists back against the headboard in a moment of –)

(No, not now. Later. There'd be time to figure this out later.) 

The glass on the face was broken but the hands were still working, apparently. 7:35. What could I possibly have to do at 7:30 on a Saturday morning?

"I must be late for something," I found myself mumbling, then hating myself for saying it. I knew how that would sound.

"Is that how you live your life? Always figuring if you're not running somewhere you must be late for something?" she asked, and now she sounded wide-awake. Shit. "You want a shirt to go with that?"

In the act of throwing my purse over my shoulder, I looked down to realize I'd put on my skirt but abandoned my blouse because of the stains and the smell. Shit, shit. "Thanks." Keeping my back turned, I began to hunt through a pile of T-shirts on the floor. The first one I picked up was purple, with big, bold yellow lettering across the front – FIT FOR A CLIT. 

I whirled around without thinking. "Where the hell did you get this?"

She laughed, apparently delighted with herself – but was it just me, or did her eyes seem just a bit too hard and focused to go with that laugh? "Isn't it great? I found it –"

"Never mind. I don't want to know." Hands shaking, I grabbed the next shirt I found and yanked it over my head. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized it was a Rainbow Brite shirt, which of course was fraught with still more symbolism I didn't want to explore. I half-turned to her, claustrophobia overwhelming me more strongly than ever. "I'll – I'll call you, okay? I just need to -" I couldn't believe I was doing this, couldn't believe I was walking out on her with the "I'll call you" line. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't –

"Hey." She pulled the blanket up over her chest. I realized she wasn't kidding around anymore; the hint of flirtation had vanished from her tone. "Why are you leaving?" she asked, point blank.

"Because – because –" Just like that, it was all spilling out. "Because I don't know what I'm doing here and I'm more confused than I ever have been in my life and I just need some time to think, okay? I'm not gay, Maureen, I'm not! I've never – and I just need some time alone – because I need to – I just need to think things through, okay, and – please, I have to go." Oh, Lord.

"No." She flipped her hair back out of her eyes with a shake of her head, blue eyes blazing. "No. You're not walking out like this."

"I'm not 'walking out' on you, Maureen!" Now, what the hell kind of sense was that supposed to make? How else could this possibly be construed?

"Oh, yeah? Then what the hell are you doing, Joanne?" As that was precisely what I'd been asking myself, I had no choice but to let it go, gaping helplessly. It didn't matter. She was rattling on. "God, is this how you always live? Can you do anything in your life without having to think it all through, without having to second-guess everything –"

"This is something I need to second-guess, Maureen!" Absurdly, I found myself wanting to stamp my foot, like a five-year-old in a temper tantrum. "I have never – been with a woman in my life! I –"

"Yeah, and you seemed to have a pretty good time of it last night," she said smoothly. I winced, automatically, as a bit more flashed back to me. "So what's the problem? Why the hell can't you lie back down here with me and cuddle for awhile? What's so important that you have to do at seven in the fucking morning?"

"It's seven-forty, and don't swear at me." I picked my purse up again, dropped it as a shudder raced through me. 

"Like hell. I'll swear if I feel like it. Fuck," she added as an afterthought.

I had to laugh. It came out high and strange. "Doesn't that tell you anything? Can't you see this isn't going to work, Maureen?" Oh, what was I raving about now?

"What's *that* supposed to mean?" She sat forward more. The blanket fell down around her waist again. By then we were both too involved to notice.

"We're too different, Maureen, there's no way this could ever – how the hell is this ever supposed to work?"

"Like I said. What does that mean?" Her eyes had a hard, flinty glint to them now; they'd darkened from light blue to gray. 

"Oh, come on, you don't need me to tell you! What the hell would you ever want with me?" I was breathing hard now, but come on, I couldn't start sobbing, not now, that would be the worst way to cap all this off – "I know how you think of me, I know how you pity me, thinking I have no life and I'm lonely and you have to save me and – just – just be like you, but I'm not like you, Maureen, I –"

"So I ask you again. What am I *like?*" she demanded, and now she was yelling. "I'm a woman, you're a woman, we're plenty alike if you ask me –"

"Oh, shut *up!*" I cried. "You want to know how we're not alike? How about I've been with two men in my entire life and you've been with twenty women and fifty men? How about you seem like the kind of girl who's been in an orgy or five in her life and I just can't deal with that?" I hated myself, hated the torrent of words flooding out of my mouth, raw and bitter and so cruel, but I was on a roll, I couldn't stop. "Where do you draw the line, huh? Should I be asking how many dogs you've slept with?" Oh my God, I didn't just say that.

"Just the one. I didn't much like it," she said, and my jaw dropped. The look she gave me could have iced over lava. "It was a joke. And get the fuck out of my apartment. Now."

"Gladly," I cried, and stormed out, purse swinging behind me. I tried to slam the door; my purse got caught. I struggled with it, panting. The last thing I heard before I got the purse free and whirled the door shut was "Maybe I wasn't kidding. I guess I've fucked one bitch in my life!"

I fled down the hall and out to the street before realizing my car was parked back at the bar. I leaned against a stop sign, breathing hard, crying. A car slowed as it passed; I could feel the driver checking me out, in Maureen's too-tight Rainbow Brite T, no bra, and my wrinkled, vodka-stained business skirt from last night. I slumped more heavily against the sign and let the tears come.

How could this all happen?


	5. Chapter 5

So… where'd all the reviewers go?

Heh. I'm review-greedy, folks. :) Seriously, I'd really like constructive criticism if you have any, so seeing as you can tell me if you don't like it as well as if you do, you have no excuse for not reviewing. ;) Go to. 

JOANNE

I'd run out, but there was nowhere to go. I'd have walked to my car, gladly, but I wasn't at all sure I'd be able to find my way back, and anyway it would have been at least a forty-minute walk, forty minutes on shaky legs that currently felt to be the consistency of overcooked spaghetti; forty minutes with nothing to do but think about what I'd done; forty minutes carrying me farther and farther away from Maureen's carelessly messy little apartment. Forty minutes, each minute making what I'd done a little more irrevocable. 

I couldn't do it.

So I slid down against a neighboring chain-link fence, feeling a little dampness from the ground seeping through my already-ruined shirt. It must have rained last night at some point. It wasn't raining now, but it was threatening to; even as I thought that, a light dusting of invisible raindrops brushed my skin, too thin to be seen, like mist congealing around my face.

I tried to think.

It didn't work very well. I kept being interrupted by random flashes from the night before. A glimpse of her body. The sound of her moan. And the sound of my own cries, high-pitched and drunken and out of control in a way I'd never allowed myself to be – 

I winced and made myself stand up. This wasn't getting me anywhere. Neither was the opposite extreme, though, the one I kept rushing to as if it could provide any more answers – the I'm-not-a-lesbian-this-was-all-a-mistake line of thinking. There was something inherently false in it. As there had been all along in my consistent refusal to recognize that there was something between myself and Maureen after all. That, in short, I had the hots for Maureen Johnson. That it had been that way more or less from the moment she'd walked purposefully off the dance floor towards me, hips swinging with the music, and ordered me a drink three weeks ago.

I was going to have to take a cab home, that was all. I couldn't stand on this street corner all day. Once I was home I'd be able to start making sense of all of this. I had a brand-new legal pad there, a hefty supply of black Bic roller pens. I could make some outlines, some flow-charts detailing the progression of this whole sorry affair, list some pros and cons, maybe come up with a statement of purpose. There had to be a way to make this fit into the rest of my life. 

Except, shit – I dug through my purse, cursed softly under my breath – where was my wallet?

I'd had it in the bar with me, I knew that much. I didn't know if I'd left with it. Had someone stolen it? There was a police station not far from here, I could go, file a police report –

Right, in Maureen's Rainbow Brite T-shirt (made still worse by the light dusting of rain that was slowly soaking it through) and my godawful business skirt from last night. I'd make a great impression.

Plus, it was far more likely my wallet was still in Maureen's room.

There were a few other things missing too, I realized. The sunglasses I kept in there to combat glare from the road while driving. A tin of lip gloss. My in-case-of-an-accident-or-other-emergency medical tags. Who would want any of those? I'd cast my purse aside so carelessly last night, doubtless a few things had just fallen out.

And now I was going to need to go back up there to retrieve them.

No. No. 

I shook my head violently, trying to make the idea go away, but it refused to budge. I had no other way of getting out of here. I couldn't take a cab without any money; I couldn't walk to my car; I certainly couldn't walk home. And I couldn't stay here all day.

All right. So how hard could this be, really? Just step in, tell her I'd lost a few things, grab them, walk back out. No problem.

This would be fine. Really.


	6. Chapter 6

MAUREEN

I wasn't all that surprised when I heard the tentative little knock on the door. For one thing, I didn't really credit her with the guts to walk out like that; I knew she'd be back, with her timid little apologies I didn't want to hear, her downcast look that was just going to make me want to hit her. For another thing, her wallet, her car keys, and a few other random things were all scattered in a semicircle around the place where she'd dropped her purse.

Too bad. I'd had such a good closing line. Now she was going to ruin it all.

"It's open," I called, without turning. While she'd been gone I'd gotten dressed, knowing she'd be back. Plain bluejeans. Plainer white T-shirt. Somehow, this didn't seem the moment for knockout sexy clothing.

"Maureen?" her voice came through the door. Shit, what was she waiting for?

I marched over to the door, swung it open. "It was open," I told her. She glanced at me for a moment, then looked away. 

"Um. Right. I…"

"Your stuff. Right." I grabbed the wallet and keys off the floor, handed them to her, then shoved the rest into a pile and scooped it off the floor as well. "That all?"

"I… well…"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Joanne, let me make this easy for you, all right? You're sorry. Fine. Can we still be friends? Maybe in about ten years. Have a nice day? You too."

"No, wait, Maureen," she said, and something in her tone made me look up. Her eyes were pleading, which was the last thing I wanted to see. Despite the crack I'd made, I'm not much enamored of puppy-dogs. "I just…" And now she reminded me of a fish, mouth opening and closing silently. She was irritating the living shit out of me.

"You just what?" I was pushing her hard now. I wanted her out the door.

"Nothing. Forget about it." She closed the door.

Ten seconds later I swung it open again. She was still standing there, hand poised to knock.

I rolled my eyes. "You're not going to give up till I let you in, are you? Fine. Come in." I pulled the door open roughly enough that it hit the wall, pointed at a butterfly chair in the corner. "There. Sit."

She came in but chose a loveseat on the opposite side of the room, one she could descend into with a little more grace. "All right if I sit here?"

"Whatever. You're already sitting." She looked down at her lap. That was a terrible skirt. "So what is it?"

"I guess… not that much you didn't already say," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I was way out of line."

"Yep."

"And I…"

"Yeah, you're sorry. Want to go around in the circle again?"

She glanced up at me, a small spark beginning to kindle in her eyes. "You're not making this very easy."

"Yeah, well, you just accused me of fucking dogs, Joanne. What did you expect?" Giving up, I kicked back in the butterfly chair myself. I saw her eyes dodge away from my splayed legs. I was damned if I was going to squirm into a more sedate position for her sake. 

"I was upset. And confused." Now she was looking so miserable that it was starting to get to me. Damn it all.

"Yeah, I know. You're not a lesbian, right? You've told me."

She rolled her eyes and gave a little bitter laugh. "I think I'm past that."

"What, you converted in the last twenty minutes?"

"No, I fell for you a month ago and now I'm finally admitting it, all right?"

I dared a quick glance up at her. She looked like she meant it.

"It's really – really strange, Maureen, trying to figure all this out," she said, sounding desperate. "And I – believe me, I didn't come in here with the intention of saying all this but –"

"Well, don't stop now," I said. "Please. We're just getting to the good part." I hated myself for sounding so bitchy. But I would have hated myself more if I'd sounded serious.

"Oh, will you just let me get through this?" she said, eyes blazing. "It's hard enough as it is. I don't know what it is about you that – that gets to me so much, because I think some of my concerns this morning were valid, all right? We're totally different people and I don't really see how we could ever work together –"

"Yeah, especially with that thing I have for dogs and all."

"Will you let it go? I'm so sorry I said that, I really am."

"No, it's too good to let go. What a fun image. Do you picture me with a male dog or a female one?"

"Whatever, Maureen! I'm trying to tell you that – oh, shit." She looked back down again. Oh, Jesus Christ, she was not going to start crying on me. 

Then again, maybe she was.

"Hey." I got up, went across the room to her, sat down next to her. Slipped an arm around her gingerly. She didn't respond much. "Look, I'm sorry. I just don't know what to say either, you know?"

"No, I know."

"Because I like you a lot, Joanne, but I don't think I can take this either. Forget about the dog comment, but I really don't think I could be with someone who thought I was a whore."

She looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red, and swallowed. "I don't think that."

"Yeah? Then why did you walk out this morning?"

"I told you, I was totally confused –"

"And you couldn't handle that I'd been with 'twenty women and fifty men', right?" She winced. "By the way, it wasn't that many," I added. 

"Oh?"

"No. I was counting it up. I don't think I remembered everybody, but I've only got eleven women and twenty-four men on the list."

She laughed. It was a weird, raw sound, but she did laugh. "You've still got me beat, Maureen."

"Oh. Yeah. You've really only been with two men?"

The look she gave me said clearly that she wasn't about to apologize for that. "Yeah. Brian Bowman, I told you about him, four years ago. And Robert Jordan, the guy who broke up with me just before I met you. I'm pretty sure I'm not forgetting anyone," she added, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Jesus. It never bothered you?"

"Honestly? No. Because I was really never that wild about sex with either of them anyway. With Brian, I mean, it just hurt like hell at first, and even after awhile it was just something I had to put up with. Robert was a little better, but it just didn't do anything for me."

"I thought you said you enjoyed it."

"Yeah, well, I said a lot of things."

I giggled. Somehow my hand had wound up stroking her hair, which was disheveled and puffy with rainwater. "So, basically, you're a dyke."

"Oh, Jesus, do you have to use that word?"

"Well, which word do you want? Lesbian sounds like some sort of a vaginal fungus."

"Oh, God." She laughed. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"A lesbian?"

"A dyke."

"Nice." I patted her shoulder.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked in a second.

"Not really. I probably should be."

"Probably."

"You're kind of too pathetic to be mad at though."

"Oh, thanks." She stuck her tongue out at me. I was pissed that it turned me on.

"Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's sexy, and I think it's better if we don't rush into this all over again, okay?"

In response, she stuck her tongue out again.

"Oh, cut it out." I stuck my tongue back out at her. She wiggled hers at me. "Stop it!" She laughed. Leaned in closer. "Seriously, Joanne –"

Well, clearly the only way she was going to cut it out was going to be if I kissed her, so that was what I did.

We were both panting when we broke apart. Wide-eyed. "You taste like licorice," she said in a moment. 

"What?"

"Were you eating licorice?"

"Oh – yeah, while you were gone," I said, distracted. That shirt of mine left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Of course, her tits were a little bigger than mine.

"I was out there crying my eyes out, and you were eating licorice?"

"You should try it, you can't be upset when you're eating candy."

"I wish I had your coping strategies."

"Whatever," I said, and found myself kissing her again. I was the one who pulled it apart this time.

"Damn it, Joanne, I'm not going to do this!" I made myself get up. Shit, that part was hard.

"Why?" she asked, standing up too, her hands on her hips.

"Because we need to take some time! I'm not rushing back into this!"

"Since when have you ever been an advocate of taking things slowly?"

"Since –" Since I'd showed signs of falling for her way too hard. This wasn't just about sex anymore. And that made me nervous. "Why do I have to do this?" I demanded. "Aren't you the one who's supposed to be keeping this from going too fast?"

"Oops," she said, and caught me in one quick pounce. I fell over on the bed. "Damn it, Joanne –"

"What?" she murmured, lips on my neck. She'd found that one spot just above my collarbone that damn near drove me crazy; how had she figured that out so quickly?

"You – oh, Jesus. Forget about it." I crushed her lips against mine. She moaned, a little high-pitched sound that about drove me out of my mind. "Just a second –" she panted, struggling with the T-shirt. We'd have had to break the kiss to get it off her. I grabbed the back of the neckline, tore it down the back. It had always been flimsy material.

"Maureen," she panted, as my hands found her breasts and she worked away at the button on my jeans. "Maureen –"

"Shut up," I said, and pushed her down on the bed backwards. I was afraid she was going to start talking, and that was going to spoil everything. For the moment, we'd slipped back into all-about-sex. And that was all that I wanted just now.

But something went wrong afterwards, in the stillness and silence punctuated only by soft breathing, the slow ritardando of my heartbeat and of hers. "You're sweet," she murmured eventually, kissing my neck near my ear.

"Am I?" I whispered. "Most people wouldn't call me that."

"Well, maybe most people don't see you like this."

"Mmmmm." Something about the feel of her pressed up close against me, her head resting gently on my bare shoulder, was making me think strange things. I was acquiring a suspicious case of the warm fuzzies, I thought, with some annoyance, as I looked down at her, the soft curve of her cheek, the smooth arch of her brows over closed eyes. I wanted her to open her eyes again, wanted to learn that rich dark brown shade a little more thoroughly, so I said her name.

"Joanne."

"Hmmm?" she said, opening her eyes. Mission accomplished. But I was still talking. 

"Look, I know –" I wasn't quite sure how to finish that. I had no idea why I'd begun it.  


"What is it?" she said, sitting up a little. I pushed her back down, making her rest her head on my shoulder again.

  
"Okay, you were right. I know we're different," I said, making sure to keep my voice level, trying not to spoil the mood. "I play the field a lot, you're right. I like to keep things…variable. It's more fun that way. But… every now and then someone a little different comes along, and –"

"Mmmm?" The brown of her eyes seemed to deepen a little more.

"Every now and then someone comes along that I want to hang onto for awhile," I heard myself say. 

"So what are you saying?" she asked, voice low.

"So… want to go out to dinner tonight?"

She smiled, that slow, seductive smile, as sensual as a dollop of whipped cream. "Sure," she whispered, and reached up to kiss me again. 

Later, when things had quieted again, I felt a soft little whisper of breath on my ear. "Maureen?"

"Yeah," I said, eyes still closed. Her fingers were playing gently with one of my nipples. I wasn't interested in conversation.

"I'm not sure how this all happened…"

I groaned. "Not this again."

"No, I just wanted to tell you –"

"What?" 

"I really don't care. I'm here."

I opened my eyes, smiled down at her. "That's what I wanted to hear."

We rested that way for a long time, not quite asleep but hovering on the edge, lulled into shared dreams by shared warmth and a shared heartbeat.


End file.
